Hugs
by self-fulfilling-prophet
Summary: The first time, Joan initiates the hug. The second time, Holmes initiates. One heavy, one light. Both supportive.


**Hugs**

Joan was the first one to ever initiate a hug.

It had been a bad day for Sherlock. Their latest case had not ended well. They had managed to catch the man who had been killing numerous people and leaving parts of their body around the city like a bloody version of a scavenger hunt, but not before he had managed to claim one last life. The psycho had managed to chop off the poor man's left arm seconds before they arrived. He was alive when it happened and, despite all of Joan's best efforts, the wound was too close to his heart, and he bled to death right in front of them.

If that hadn't been enough, soon after they arrived home, Sherlock got a call from his father. He hadn't told her what the call was about, but she had been living with him long enough to tell that it wasn't a pleasant chat (from Sherlock's view at least). The way his expression just slightly changed, and the fact that he ended up taking the call outside instead of in front of her, as he often did. When he came back inside, she only briefly saw his face, but from that fleeting glance and his tone when he spoke to her (telling her he would be on the roof studying his bees and to not disturb him), she knew he was upset. However, she also knew he would never admit it, so she just let him be.

She was in the middle of reading in the living room(one of her own books for pleasure, not one of the books Sherlock had given her to study; she needed something to take her mind off of the case earlier, and studying blood spatters was not going to help)when he finally came back in hours later. She looked up from her book as he collapsed on the couch, face-down, like a bored teenager with nothing else to do. He didn't say anything to her, but when she saw that he still had an upset expression on his face, even after taking care of his bees, she knew she needed to do something. Joan quietly put a bookmark in her place, closed her book, and placed it on the side table. She stood up and walked over to the couch where Sherlock was lying face down.

"Sherlock," she said.

"Whaft," he replied, his voice muffled by the sofa cushions.

"Stand up."

He turned his face to look up at her. "What? Why?"

"Just do it," she said, rolling her eyes. He raised an eyebrow at her, but complied. Joan spread her arms wide. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.

"No. Not a chance," he said bluntly, deducing her intention.

"Come on. One hug won't kill you."

"Perhaps not. But I consider hugs as useless things. A form of physical comfort, while effective to others, is wasted on me. True, the dopamine it produces is beneficial, creating a calming, happy effect, similar to eating chocolate or having sex. However, I am not in the need for such a boost. And I would just as well prefer chocolate, or even better, sex."

"Well I don't care. You obviously need a hug, so shut up and take it like a man. The more you say no, the more I am going to insist," Joan shot back, her arms still outstretched. Sherlock scrunched up his face in annoyance, and she thought he might walk away (she would follow him, she had made up her mind now, and she was just as stubborn as him). But to her surprise, he uncrossed and lowered his arms, without moving from the spot. She took that as a sign that it was okay.

Joan closed the distance between them and (with just a moment of hesitation) wrapped her arms around his upper body. He kept his arms hanging down by his side, and she felt him stiffen at her touch. She wasn't surprised by his reaction and reluctance to reciprocate the hug. In the months that she had known him, the only time they had prolonged physical contact was when she comforted him after the ordeal with Moran, and then it was only a touch on the arm. Joan found herself wondering why she hadn't given him a hug earlier. Admittedly, she wasn't a "huggy" person, and during her time as his sober companion, a hug would have been borderline unprofessional. But now they were business partners and friends, and they had been living together for quite a while. Obviously, Sherlock wasn't a very affectionate person, but still.

After just a few seconds, Sherlock was already feeling uncomfortable. "Satisfied now? I told you, I-"

"Sherlock. Please," Joan pleaded, her voice slightly cracking.

Sherlock was taken aback by her tone. And so was Joan. She hadn't intended for her request to come out so…desperate. She had just wanted him to actually get some relief, for her hug to do him some good. She hadn't realized quite how much she needed the hug as well. The case must have hit her harder than she thought. She felt Sherlock relax, and she prepared herself to be pushed away and apologize.

But an amazing thing happened. Instead of pushing her away, Sherlock slowly brought his arms up around her. Joan could hardly believe it. It was an awkward hug, but it was a hug nonetheless. She tightened her arms around him in response, pressing her face into his chest. He followed suit, holding her tighter and burying his face into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. She wasn't 100% sure what she was apologizing for, but it was all she could think to say at that moment.

"It's alright, I suppose. I mean, it will be okay. Everything is fine, Watson," Sherlock sputtered out. He was completely out of his element, and like Joan, was not quite sure what to say. He wasn't sure if he was assuring Joan that he was alright, or trying to comfort her. He knew she was worried about him, but he also knew how much she was affected by watching someone die right in front of her.

Joan chuckled weakly in spite of herself. "I was going to give you a hug to help you cheer up, but it looks like you ended up comforting me. Sorry about that," she said, sniffing back tears she hadn't realized were there.

"N-no, it's alright. This is more…enjoyable…helpful…than I thought." It wasn't a lie. He had never been much for physical affection, partially because he was never really raised with much of it. He had hugged people before, to be sure; but this was his first heart-to-heart hug that he had had since Irene. Even with Irene, it wasn't quite like this. His hugs with her, while affectionate, still held an element of desire to them. With Joan, it was different. There was nothing but care, concern, and comfort.

The two of them stayed in their hug longer than either of them would later admit. And when they finally broke away and went on with their night like normal (not mentioning the hug again), they both knew they were better from it.

* * *

The first Sherlock initiated hug came about a week or so later.

The trigger was nothing quite as serious as when Joan hugged Sherlock. Joan had been slipping into a period of low self-esteem and self-doubt. A few days prior, she had met up with some old friends for drinks. When she told them about a case she had been on recently that had ended up with her nearly getting shot, they had tried to convince her to quit for her own safety. She knew they were just worried about her, but she was still not confident in her deductive skills, and their worries didn't help.

That day, she had just met with her mother for lunch, and it had resulted in a similar discussion. Her mother was much more supportive of her consulting career than her previous job as a sober companion, but she still had the tendency to say just the right things to set Joan off. Sherlock's comment on her outfit before she left didn't help either ("Still trying to impress mummy, are we?"). By the time she got home from her lunch date, Joan was depressed, angry, and annoyed.

"Hey Sherlock, you here?" she called out as she dropped her things by the front door.

"In the kitchen," he yelled back in reply, "You should join me, but watch where you step if you value the shoes you are currently wearing."

Joan headed for the kitchen as instructed, but was met with a mess that made her groan loudly. Test tubes, beakers, and numerous other tools covered every flat surface, and a red liquid that looked suspiciously like blood covered almost every inch of the room. Sherlock was positioned at the sink with his back to her, pouring the contents of a beaker into a test tube.

"SHERLOCK!" she yelled, "WHAT THE HELL?!"

"Ah, you are back," he said without turning around, ignoring her outburst, "How did your date with mummy dearest go?"

"It went fine," she lied, "But are you going to explain this mess?!"

"Hmm, so it went that bad?" he asked, yet again refusing to turn around or acknowledge her annoyance.

"It went fine! It was just full of all the things everyone has been telling me since I took this job: I'm no good at it, it's too dangerous, I should go back to being a doctor, yada yada yada," she said, leaning up against the door frame with her arms crossed. "Now stop avoiding my question!"

"Don't worry, it isn't actually blood," he said, finally turning around to face her. He was wearing a long leather apron, large rubber gloves, and was covered in the red liquid as well. The test tube he was holding contained a slightly darker red liquid inside. It was bubbling slightly, but Sherlock didn't seem concerned. "I was trying to create a mixture that resembled blood in color and viscosity, as well as give a false positive to most of the basic police tests for blood at a crime scene. Achieving the look was simple enough, but chemical tests proved to be a little…explosive."

"A little? It looks like you started a slaughterhouse in our kitchen!" Joan snapped back angrily.

"Now, don't worry about what other people think about your career choice, Watson. Lord knows I don't. Their opinion doesn't matter in the end," Sherlock said as he put the beaker and test tube down, completely ignoring her outburst yet again. "All you need is a new case to help restore your confidence. And perhaps a new lesson in how different soil and materials affect decomposition rates," he continued as he walked over to her. As he got closer, Joan stepped back with her arms up. "Oh, come now Watson, I am fairly sure this will wash out."

"'Fairly sure'? Last time you assured me one of your experiments would wash out of my clothes, I had to throw away one of my favorite pairs of pants."

"But my dear Watson, I just wanted to give you a friendly, comforting hug!" Sherlock teased. He opened his gloved arms wide, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"No. No! Don't you dare!" Joan warned, backing away slowly. Sherlock moved closer in response, like a hunter stalking his prey. He lunged forward, attempting to catch her in his arms. She gave out a tiny squeal as she narrowly jumped out of the way and avoided his reach.

This started an impromptu game of cat and mouse on the first floor of their apartment. As Sherlock gave chase, Joan shouted out many protests of "Sherlock, quit it", "This isn't funny, Sherlock", and "You're getting that stuff all over the furniture!" (along with a few colorful words and phrases thrown in). However, she was unable to bring any actual anger into her tone as she ran around, and instead ended up laughing along with Sherlock.

Sherlock finally caught her on the staircase; wrapping his arms around her hips as she tried to climb upstairs (she was aiming for the bathroom, forgetting that it didn't have a functioning lock). The two laughed like idiots as he twirled her around a few times before setting her feet back on the ground. She was a little dizzy from spinning, so she didn't mind that he kept his arms around her for a bit as she wobbled. When the room stopped spinning and she regained her balance, she tried to squirm out of his messy embrace, planning to at least punch him in the shoulder for ruining her clothes. She stopped wriggling when she heard him let out a singular "Ah."

Joan looked at Sherlock's face. He wasn't looking at her, but staring off in the direction of the living room. Joan followed his gaze and let out a horrified gasp, her hands covering her mouth (leaving a nice bit of the red substance on her face without her knowledge).

The pair's merry chase around the brownstone had left a bigger mess than the two had realized. The floor was covered in "bloody" footprints, and handprints marked the walls and furniture. Even poor Clyde had somehow fallen victim (though it appeared that was because he had walked into a puddle willingly). Joan observed the mess with wide eyes, too shocked to say anything. Sherlock only had one comment to make.

"Well, Ms. Hudson is going to have her work cut out for her this week."

Sherlock glanced down at Joan, who rolled her eyes at his remark. But as soon as they made eye contact, the two started a second giggle fit. And yet again, Joan was glad to have Sherlock's arms as support as the two laughed their heads off.


End file.
